


sex, money, feelings die

by justrey



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben is 36, Brief Poe Dameron/Rey, College Student Rey (Star Wars), Emotionally Unavailable Ben, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Jealous Ben, Lawyer Ben Solo, Minor Poe Dameron/Rey, Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Possessive Ben Solo, Prostitution, Rey is 24, Sex for Money, Size Difference, Size Kink, Soft Ben Solo, Sugar Daddy, big dick ben solo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27521632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrey/pseuds/justrey
Summary: Ben Solo has all the money in the world, but all he wants is Rey Niima's heart.
Relationships: Finn/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	sex, money, feelings die

**Author's Note:**

> Eek! The biggest thanks are in order to [@reyloistheway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyloistheway/pseuds/reyloistheway) for being my first beta reader and doing an amazing job. I don't think I would've posted this without her. I hope you enjoy, and please know the pain and angst won't last forever!

He rolls off of her and sits on the side of the bed, grabbing his watch from the side table and putting it on.

She’s still catching her breath, and he’s just…fine.

Did he even come?

She begins a mental recount of everything that has transpired since she stepped foot in his home and decides she is 89% certain he did, in fact, come. She’s not snapped back into reality until the telltale _clank_ of his belt sounds through the room.

Aside from his redressing, it’s silent.

In truth, it’s been silent for a few hours, save for breathy moans and deep grunts. She wishes she could hear what he was thinking.

_Probably that he wants the little fuck toy out of his condo,_ her brain unhelpfully supplies. _You’ve done your business and now he wants you gone. You already knew this was an arrangement of necessity, nothing more._

Fueled by her inner monologue, she’s quick to jump out of the bed and yank her panties over her backside. Her jeans follow, and she haphazardly buttons them, leaving the zipper down. Suddenly, she can’t get out of there fast enough. It’s suffocating - his presence, his _wealth_ \- and she wants out.

She doesn’t even bother with her bra, just stuffing it in her cheap purse and throwing her shirt back over her bare chest. That may be the one upside to having practically nothing breast-wise - she doesn’t have to wear a bra if she doesn’t feel like it.

His eyes are on her. He’s watching her with that calculative stare while he buttons his dress shirt, and she wants to scream. _What do you want from me?_ She would yell. _Wasn’t this about my body? Now you want my sanity, too? My soul? Just take it, it’s yours._

But she stays silent. She always does. 

There’s no goodbye. She doesn’t even look at him again, just leaves his guest bedroom - he’s never let her into his own room, which she can hardly blame him for - and marches down the grossly large staircase to the door. She flings it open so hard she nearly falls over, slipping on the freshly mopped tile. Goddamn him. Goddamn his tile.

He doesn’t know a thing about her, but she likes to think that if he did, maybe he would move into a much more modest home. She didn’t even have a stable home growing up, and this asshole just has people to wax and mop his floor while he’s upstairs with the girl he’s paying to fuck him. She hates him.

She’s fuming by the time she rights herself, turning to close the massive door but stopping short.

He’s there. At the top of the staircase, his pants done up but his shirt still half-buttoned. She can see part of his bare chest, the very chest she gripped and panted into not twenty minutes ago. The chest with a constellation of moles that she could map out with her eyes closed.

He looks like he maybe wants to say something. She slams the door in his face before he gets the chance.

And in a way, she’s slamming the door on the possibility of him. 

At least, until he calls again.

The worst part about such a bold move is that she doesn’t get to revel in the feeling. Instead she must walk through his lavish courtyard, past his perfectly manicured lawns, and down the cobblestone path for half a mile to reach the main road.

He offered her a private driver once but she refused. She could only take so much, and socializing with someone who had a better look into the man she was fucking than she did for half an hour was not something she wanted to take part in. Sex is supposed to be something intimate, yet she could hardly say anything about her partner outside of her own observations.

The bus is her safe haven. The quiet thrum of the engine and the buzz of people speaking to one another helps to bring her back down to reality, away from the quiet and secluded world that she escapes to every time she gets a call on the phone he bought for her. It helps her remember that she is a person, these are people, and even if she was used for her body for the better part of the day, she has a say in how she exists within the doors of the public transport. 

The first few times after their encounters, she would nervously speak to Hank, the bus driver; her pent-up energy being expelled into run-on sentences and twitching. He indulged her because he’s a good man. As time went on, however, she stopped talking to Hank. Her energy was taken from her in other ways, no longer leaving the giddy excitement of wanting to share something new. Instead she was just…tired. Exhausted from trying to keep her emotions at bay and becoming nothing more than a body.

By the time she makes it to her stop, she has nothing to offer Hank but a polite nod and a half-smile - one that gets more and more strained every weekend. She shuffles her feet - a bad habit her third foster father would have gotten after her for - all the way to the shabby apartment she shares with her two best friends, digging past the bra in her purse to find her keys.

She makes it into the apartment and onto the couch before she breaks down into sobs, shivering so badly she has to wrap herself in a blanket. This is always part of it, and if she had the bravery to tell him as much, she would demand more money for it.

_Fuck you_ , she wishes she could spit at his beautiful face. _I cry myself to sleep when you’re done with me. You don’t hold me. You don’t even touch me. You toss me away until you need me again. Did it ever occur to you I want more? That I would like to be treated as a person, not a toy?_

Of course not.

Rose hears her and comes out of her own room to comfort her best friend. She brings chamomile tea and a sugar cookie; Rey’s favorites. On any other occasion, Rey is sure she would get the lecture on how damaging this tall, dark, and handsome man is on her well-being; on how she couldn’t possibly need his money badly enough to let him treat her like dirt and have her crawling back for more.

And in truth, she doesn’t. Rey has spent enough time with Ben Solo to have saved a hefty amount. She could drop him right this second and not have to work for another year. Their agreement was explicitly clear: even if she did decide to back out, he would pay her portion of the rent and her tuition for the remainder of the semester, no matter the circumstances. That was possibly the only time he showed compassion for the young woman - through his money. 

Instead, Rose holds her best friend and rubs her back, telling her that it will all be okay, that it’s over now.

  
Rey stays silent, save for her soft sobs, because Rose will never understand _that_ is the reason she is crying.


End file.
